The ocean perfumes the blue dawn,
the surface smell is so sweet.
The waves mirror indulgence and smiles
that balance tenderness
yours and mine.
Softness is delight.
Why aren’t all moments of joy?
No more an improbable search.
Keep away the improbable gestures.
Glory is born of baroque images.
It doesn’t pass Spring,
but it’s visible in the yellow dawn
that my eyes search for.
The breeze comes from loving,
it doesn’t speak words of love.
It flies and goes,
and travels in green forests
of love and of passion.
Illusion?
It’s better to go to the Land of Fire.
It’s better to walk in the snows of Kilimandjaro.
